


Mine

by vodkanime



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:25:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7949701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkanime/pseuds/vodkanime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He isn't yours. He's not even close to yours, and you're more aware of that than anyone else could be. Bro doesn't belong to anyone. You'd fucked twice, hadn't talked about it, gone on with your lives in between as if nothing had ever happened; it's simple, if you think about it. There's no commitment. There's no communication, not even a hint of an acknowledgement of what you've done. If there was, if there was even some consistency you could handle it, but there isn't. It's hot and then cold and then a million flavours of lukewarm and room temperature before it spikes to hot again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine

**Author's Note:**

> for jojo!!!!! my dearest!!!!

You're feeling pretty lukewarm about it all right now. You know that he's not yours, you know that he has every right and freedom to do what and who he wants. He's an adult; something that you aren't. He's allowed to come home at home at four in the morning, stumbling through the door with enough whiskey in him that you don't have to hide that you'd been waiting for him, you don't have to pretend you weren't checking the clock every ten minutes because he wouldn't even realize it if he noticed you.  
  
Not that he does.   
  
You know, of course, that he's entitled to any nights out and any boy's hickeys covering his neck, so you curse yourself for the void in your gut that eats away at your insides every second without Bro. Each night you spend curled into a ball with memories you shouldn't even be holding onto and every minute of silence making breakfast for yourselves in the morning before you've had your coffee. You hate yourself for it. You cuss yourself out for it daily; coincidentally, that's how often he's gone in the evening.   
  
It's not his fault, you're sure he doesn't have a clue what you're feeling, and you're sure he doesn't care. He's had his fun with you and now he's having it with everyone else, and that's fine. That's understandable. So you don't say anything. You're not supposed to feel like this. You're not supposed to feel betrayed by someone who isn't yours, who never was and never in a million years would be, but you're hurting. You can't help it.   
  
You can't fucking help it.   
  
The first time it happened, it was messy and unsure, uncomfortable and a hundred different shades of embarrassing. It's hard to remember where it started, or exactly how it started; you'd been fighting about whether or not you took the last piece of pizza (you did, of course you did, you always did) and you were convinced he was going to hit you. You'd riled him up enough that he was actually about to kick your ass. His arm shot out and you flinched hard but it didn't connect with your cheek like you were expecting. He just pulled you close and kissed you in the kitchen and you eventually both dragged your bodies into the living room, then into your bedroom.   
  
You remember the first time the strongest, your brain making sure to burn the feelings and words into you until you saw them inside your lids when you closed your eyes. You remember the before, during, and after: how he held you, how he left you.   
  
The second time, you came to him, pushing open his door without knocking and crawling onto him with his name already on your lips. The second time, both of you knew what you wanted. The second time, you left as many marks as he did and you fell asleep next to him tangled in his arms, listening to his heartbeat.   
  
The second time, he left you in his bed alone when he woke in the morning.   
  
You remember hating how normal everything was when he came back. You remember being relieved, too, that you didn't have to confront it. You remember not knowing how you felt until the next night when you were alone, and he let you be that way. Even though he didn't have any reason to be with you, even though you knew it meant nothing to him, you still felt your stomach twist into knots when you heard him snoring in the next room.   
  
It was hard.   
  
It's always hard.   
  
Tonight, you're not sure you can deal with it; you feel empty, hollow when the door unlocks at half past two, and he almost forgets to take his shoes of when he gets inside (he always just barely remembers he's wearing them) and you hear him open the fridge. He doesn't take anything out. He walks down the hall and stands outside of your room; just for a second.   
  
This time, Bro comes to you, leaving the door open as he steps inside the room. This time, you turn away from him when he touches your shoulder, checking if you're awake as if he doesn't know he's been loud enough to wake you even if you'd had earbuds in. As if he doesn't know how your whole body aches for him when he's not here with you, how much more pain you feel now that he is. He kisses your cheek because your mouth moved too quick for him to catch and you push at him.   
  
"Dave..." Bro has alcohol on his breath and you swallow a lump in your throat and sniff.   
  
"Leave me alone."   
  
He doesn't, instead staying and nuzzling his head against yours and murmuring something too slurred for you to understand. You sit up and you shove him; really shove him. His legs barely hold him up as he staggers back, and you don't have time to tell him you're sorry or that you don't mean it because your blood is boiling, your face feels hot and there's already a yell bubbling out of you saying something completely different.   
  
"Get off!" You hiss, and he just stands there, infuriatingly oblivious to the hurt you've never told him you feel. You can't fucking stand it.   
  
"Dave, I--"   
  
"Fuck you!" It's louder than you mean it to be. "I don't want whoever you were with touching me through your hands, I don't want you touching me with the same fucking hands that were on someone else, Bro. Get out of my room."   
  
"I wasn't--"   
  
"Out!"   
  
He stays for only a moment longer, trying to read your expression in the dark before exiting, closing the door behind him loudly and slamming his own when he gets to his room. You sit there, breathing heavily. You cover your eyes with your hand and sniff, lip quivering until you bite it in order to stop. All of your fire is gone and you feel guilty, you feel sorry and you feel all-around bad for saying that to him when he's all you want. He's all you want and you pushed him hard enough away that he's not coming back. You feel a little nauseous, a little dizzy. A sob escapes you, just a single one, and that's all you allow yourself as you lie back down, looking up at your ceiling in the dark.   
  
He's not yours, and you have no right. You'd resolved to take whatever you could get but you've blown up at him and you're not getting anything, not anymore. Your stomach feels like it's eating itself. Your head fucking hurts and your body screams at you for denying it what it almost had. Every swallow and every breath hurts. There's pain everywhere, in your heart and lungs and diaphragm.   
  
You close your eyes. Tonight can't be over fast enough.   
  
You don't dream. The whole night feels like a blink. For a second you convince yourself that that was the dream, that the whole night as you remember it was a nightmare. It works while you put on fresh clothes and your shades, it works while you make your bed and open your door; it works right up until you walk into the kitchen and he's there. Bro looks at you and his eyes widen and relax fast enough that you could have imagined it. You know you didn't imagine it when he stops looking at you, taking his coffee out into the living room with him and leaving something frying on the stove.   
  
You walk over to the stove. Bro's making some kind of egg thing. You don't want to know what's in it, no matter how good it smells, so you pour your own coffee and sugar it before splashing cream into it (and onto the counter). Generally, your house doesn't have cream, but you use it when you see it. You ignore the fact that you definitely had milk in your coffee yesterday and you DON'T think about how early he had to get up to buy cream without you noticing. He probably brought it back home with him the night before. It doesn't mean anything.   
  
You can hear Bro come back into the room and you can feel him hovering, he's just out of your field of view but you can tell he's there, not speaking, not moving; like he's afraid to approach. It's not like before. You're not both going about your business and he's not elbowing you out of the way of the stove so he doesn't burn his breakfast (although if he doesn't do it soon, it absolutely will burn) and it's tense. The air feels heavy.   
  
It's a little ironic that the air feels heavy, because it adds to the weight of your false memory collapsing. It makes it more crushing that you have to remember here in this moment, instead of in your room. Instead of in the living room or bathroom or anywhere that Bro isn't.   
  
You talked about it.   
  
Okay, you didn't really talk about it, but you made it real by referencing it, acknowledging it. You both know that you both know what happened and there's no eluding it this time. And both of you still try; it's the elephant in the room and it's going to get harder to avoid. You leave your coffee on the counter and walk out of the room, sitting on the couch in the living room and staring at your hands. You blew it. You start breathing a little heavier and you jump when Bro is suddenly there, putting your mug in front of you before leaving you alone again.   
  
He puts on his shoes. He walks out the door. There's a pretty good chance you won't see Bro again until it's the early hours of tomorrow.   
  
Maybe there is some successful eluding going on.   
  
The coffee in front of you makes you feel sick when you look at it. You leave it behind for the second time and head to the bathroom, taking off your shades and splashing water on your face before raising it to the mirror. Looking at yourself makes you feel sick, too, but you don't stop looking, analyzing each imperfection: the colour of your eyes, the chip in one of your incisors (tiny, but ugly), the scar above your left eyebrow. The dry flakes peeling from your chapped lips.   
  
Your fucking stupid, idiot head and the even stupider brain inside.   
  
You splash more water onto you, more than you mean to in your frustration at yourself, and it runs down your face and leaves a dark splotch on your shirt. Fuck. You pull the shirt in question over your head with an annoyed rush of breath and use it to wipe off the rest of your face. It's already wet, right? What's another few watery stains? It'll dry eventually.   
  
It gives you another part of exposed skin to be disgusted by.   
  
Why did you say that to him? Why in the hell did you make Bro leave because you were a little bit bitter? You wanted more attention. That was literally it. Then, smooth as a god damn cactus, you rejected it when it was offered. You physically pushed it away and shouted at it until it scurried into the shadows. The attention is now officially off you, at least temporarily, and it's your own fault. It's your own fault because you somehow wanted him too much to let him touch you. That doesn't make any sense.   
  
You want him to yourself, or apparently not at all.   
  
Idiot.   
  
The door opens and you shove your shades back on your nose. You shuffle back into the kitchen to find Bro, hand in the pocket of one of his jackets that hangs near the apartment entrance. When you see him, you freeze. When he sees you, he freezes. His eyebrows raise and he looks you up and down and that's when you realize your damp shirt is in your hand, and you have no explanation.   
  
He talks first.   
  
"Forgot my keys," he offers.   
  
"How'd you manage that?" You snort and he shrugs.   
  
"In a hurry, I guess."   
  
In a hurry. It's the first words you've said to each other since last night, and he's in a hurry. Probably to get away from you. He finds his keys but he looks at you a minute more, noticing that you're staring, looking like he wants to say something but clenching his jaw so it stays closed. Bro turns around. He's one step out the door when a word leaves your lips without your permission and he's back to frozen, an ice statue holding car keys tightly with snow-white knuckles.   
  
"Wait."   
  
"Dave--"   
  
"Just wait." Your voice remains normal other than the fact that the smallest tremor escapes you at the start of your sentence.   
  
You know he heard it, because he hasn't moved. He's listening to you. He's waiting.   
  
That's not what you expected.   
  
You expected him to keep going, to slam the door behind him, even to go the extra mile and lock it. Instead, he stands there in the doorway with his back to you and puts his hands in his pockets, waiting for you to speak. In all honestly, you didn't think you would get this far, so you didn't actually think of how to say what it was you wanted to say.   
  
What you want to say is that you're sorry. What you want to say is that you didn't really mean it and you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you, last night, but you were hurt. You actually want to let him know you're hurt. But that's not something you've ever wanted before; you don't know how. You're not sure how to tell him how you feel without lashing out again, without being angry and getting yourself too worked up. You won't cry in front of him. You won't. But you still need to tell him.   
  
Bro waits for you to speak, taking one hand out of its pocket and scratching the back of his head lightly. He runs the same hand through his hair with a tiny sigh before turning around and leaning on the door frame.   
  
That was a bad idea. You can't be honest about your fucking feelings when he's looking at you. He cocks his head to the side impatiently and you stare at your own feet, hearing him walk forward and the door close again. You shrug, giving up. Bro kicks off his shoes and crosses his arms over his chest, still waiting, but all you do is jump up to sit on the countertop and avoid eye contact. All you do is peel skin from your lip and pretend the hole in your sock is the most interesting thing that you've ever seen.   
  
With a shiver, you throw your shirt back on and cross your legs underneath you, sneaking a glance at Bro, who of course hasn't moved. Of course. You shrug your shoulders once more, fighting back the urge to start chewing one of your fingernails, and you start when you hear him clear his throat.   
  
You've made it clear you're not going to speak after all, so he does.   
  
"Dave, I wasn't... I wasn't with anyone. Last night? I wasn't with anyone else."   
  
"I don't care." The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. It's a lie, of course you care, but thinking about it makes your stomach flip the wrong way and you grip the countertop until it hurts.   
  
"I--"   
  
"I don't care!" Your voice cracks on the last word and you swallow. "I don't care if last night you were alone, it's not... Bro, it's not just last night."   
  
He takes a step towards you. "What?"   
  
"I said, it's not just last night. You've been gone every single night for weeks. You come home and sometimes I'm not even awake when you walk through the door and I don't know anything until I see the fucking marks on your neck in the morning. You're with other people all the time, it doesn't even matter where you were last night."   
  
"…You're right."   
  
"Yeah, I am," you shoot back.   
  
It's Bro's turn to shrug. "Yeah, I get around. Since when is that your problem, Dave?"   
  
You taste blood when you next bite your lip but you don't stop, chewing on it and grimacing. "It's not my problem."   
  
Bro walks closer to you, and closer until he can scoot onto the counter next to you. His knee nudges yours and you judge his harder, pushing it away, knocking it into his other one before you fold your arms in front of you. You know he's waiting for you to keep talking. You know you don't have a way out of this one.   
  
So you guess there's not much point in trying.   
  
"It's not my problem."   
  
"You said that already."   
  
"I know!" You snarl and scoot away from him, glaring. "I didn't realize repeating myself was a fucking crime."   
  
"It's not, I just--"   
  
"So let me finish, okay Bro?" Not waiting for an answer, you continue, repeating yourself again on purpose. "It's not my problem, and you're allowed to be with whoever the fuck you want."   
  
"Are you gonna explain to me why you completely flipped your lid, then?"   
  
At that, you slide off the counter and walk away, fuming. You don't want to tell Bro that you flipped your lid because you were jealous, especially because he probably already knows and he's just playing with you at this point to get it out of you. You're stomping down the hall to your room and you're pretty sure he's following but you don't pay attention to it, not until you get into your room and swivel around to close the door right in his face. He opens it, unfazed, and you realized you've trapped yourself.   
  
"Dave."   
  
"It doesn't matter, like you said." You practically spit the words at him. He doesn't flinch. "You can have anyone out there that you want."   
  
"I--"   
  
"But you can't have me, too." You're speaking softer now, the fight draining from you. "You can't have me at the same time when I-- when I--"   
  
"When you what?" Bro says.   
  
"Nothing. Forget it. You just can't treat me like I don't--"   
  
You won't say it. You can't say it so you won't. You won't tell him how much you care or how much you need him, you can't. You're just standing there telling him to get out of your life and it just might work. You just might ruin yourself with this. A hard and painful lump forms in your throat, and your eyes try to well up with tears but you blink them away quickly.   
  
He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Okay, so what you're saying is what, exactly?"   
  
"Go out when you want, Bro. Fuck as many girls or boys or whoever you want. Just scratch me off the list of available ones."   
  
Bro doesn't say anything for a long time. His expression doesn't change, his stance stays the same and the silence in the air is thick; heavy. You fidget with the hem of your shirt. You sit on your bed and pull out your phone like the discussion is over, like you've won an argument you weren't actually having, but Bro stays there. Crossing and uncrossing your legs, your hand makes it up to your mouth and you bite the nail on your index finger until there's none left to bite (it doesn't take long; you bite your nails all the time).   
  
You're about to start on the next fingernail, too, because your brother is still in your room and you're getting more and more uncomfortable. You're wracking your brain for any reason he might have to be here, and nothing you come up with seems to fit. Both of you are quiet, your last statement being the final word. There's nothing more you could tell him that he could be waiting for. There's nothing he could say to you that--   
  
"You want me to choose?" Bro's voice is soft.   
  
"Um, what?"   
  
"You're saying you want me to choose. You, or anyone else I want, whenever else I want. You want me to choose to either be yours, or nobody's. Right?"   
  
"That's not exactly what I meant, Bro."   
  
"That's not exactly an answer, Dave."   
  
"Fine! You're right." You put your phone down on your bedside table hard enough that it makes a loud noise and you give Bro a look. "Yes, if you wanna get technical, I'm saying it's me against all of Texas, alright? Is that what you wanna hear?"   
  
The corner of his mouth twitches for a split second. "Yeah."   
  
"Good, glad one of us got what they fucking wanted."   
  
"Dave, don't."   
  
You shrug. You wait for him to leave. He doesn't. Instead he moves, walking towards you with soft footfalls, small steps that take forever to carry him to you. You look away from him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the ultimatum you'd just given him. You'd accepted the outcome already, but it still hurt, and you keep your eyes trained on the wall beside you.   
  
Bro catches your jaw with the tips of his fingers, trying to turn your face. You resist for only a moment, letting im out a disgruntled huff as you do what he wants and you swivel so your whole body faces him.   
  
"What?" You snap.   
  
He kisses you. It's gentle, and the hand at your jaw moves into your hair, running through it slowly. Your eyes flutter closed and your lips part for him and you feel him hum softly. Yes, this is what you want. God, yes.   
  
Bro pulls back. "Sorry, Texas," he breathes.   
  
That's not right, though.   
  
You search his face, and you find nothing. "You can't choose me." You whisper.   
  
"Why not?"   
  
Bro leans forward again but you hold up a hand to stop him. "No. No, you can't choose me. You can't, that's not fair."   
  
He snorts. "Not fair to who?"   
  
"Not fair to Texas," you mumble.   
  
"Texas can literally suck my dick."   
  
"Not anymore!" You scowl at him. "Not if... not if you really want me."   
  
You watch Bro shake his head with a tiny smirk. He bumps his forehead against yours gently before tilting his face up, your noses brushing together. You're lips are millimetres apart when he speaks.   
  
"Dave." His breath is warm. "I've made up my mind."   
  
This time, it's you who initiates the kiss, sliding farther back on the bed and pulling him with you. Your heartbeat and breath get faster at the same time and you slide your hands under Bro's shirt and your tongue into his mouth. He's crawling over you, pushing you down into the mattress and his hands rest just above your hips. You hook your ankles together around him and pull him even closer, and then his lips are at your neck and you moan.   
  
"Bro..."   
  
He catches your earlobe between his teeth and you shiver, tugging again at his shirt until he sits back to take it off. You move to take off your own, too, and while you're sitting up he pushes you against the wall. You gasp at the cold that hits your back, again at the tickle of Bro's fingers running up your sides. He kisses you just under your jaw and you're craning your neck to give him room to move down, teeth scraping against your skin a second before he sinks them into your shoulder.   
  
A breathy whine escapes you, and Bro kisses your lips again, tongue rubbing against the hard pallet of your mouth. You groan then, your eyes falling shut, your hands tangling in his hair. You use them to pull him back.   
  
"Are you sure?" You say breathlessly, searching his face.   
  
Bro rolls his eyes and scoots a little bit away. You push away from the wall. He leans forward and plucks the shades from your nose, and his eyebrows raise above his own. Your cheeks feel warm and you take his, too, frowning at him and waiting for his answer. When he takes another second too long, you snatch your glasses back from him and toss both pairs onto the top of your bureau.   
  
"Well?"   
  
He sighs. "Yes, of course I'm sure."   
  
"I mean, really? Are you really?"   
  
"Yes, Dave." Bro looks at you with his eyes half-lidded, head tilted a little to one side. "Really."   
  
"I don't get it," you tell him, and it's true. You don't get why he'd choose you over everything else. You're nothing. You're less than nothing when you're compared to the rest of the world. Individually? Sure, you're better than a lot of people; you'll admit that. But no individual individual person is against you. It's all of them, and they outmatch you in a way that's painfully obvious.   
  
"Dave... You don't have to get it."   
  
"What?"   
  
"I still want you whether or not you understand. Even if you're a fucking idiot, that doesn't change."   
  
You kick him softly in the leg. "I'm not an idiot!"   
  
"Whatever you say, lil man."   
  
"I'm not," you mumble.   
  
Bro reaches for you, and when you crawl over to him he pulls you into his lap until your back presses against his warm chest. His cheek rests against the side of your head, you can hear his breath near your ear, and his arms wrap around your waist gently. He kisses your temple and you sigh; this is what you want, and it's yours. He's yours.   
  
You shuffle out of his grip so that you can turn around, nuzzling your face into the space between his neck and shoulder. You feel lighter than you've felt ever since that first time, that first argument that led to an urgent clashing of lips and bodies. That first time when he left you with nothing but a stain on your sheets and a hope that started a glowing fire in you, a warmth that you'd needed to fight to keep burning until now. Because now, he's really yours.   
  
This time, you know he wants you as much as you want him. Almost, anyway. This time, he doesn't leave you, you don't have a fear of waking up alone. When you yawn, Bro lies down with you still in his arms, and he squeezes you ever so lightly before letting out a yawn of his own.   
  
This time, promises of the future zoom around in your head, and when you feel one more kiss to the top of your head, you believe they won't be broken.


End file.
